Imprudence (The Custard Protocol #2)(94)

At the same time, the small pifftt of a tiny but enthusiastic gun sounded.

One of the men holding Rue jerked. His grip relaxed. The knife at her throat clattered to the deck. Rue spun, kicked, and wrestled herself free of the remaining man. Then Tasherit was there, shaking him by his scruff. Rue would rather not think that the snap sound was his neck. The lioness tossed him overboard. He splashed into the Nile below.

Seconds later, Tasherit had the arm of the man holding the velvet money bag in her mouth. With a gentle but insistent pressure, and only a hint of teeth, she dragged him back up the gangplank. He obeyed her without protest, barely breathing, hypnotised by those teeth closed about his flesh.

“Dreaded one,” he whispered.

Tasherit made him stop on deck, right at the point where he might be pushed overboard if necessary.

He began to babble.

Anitra had taken cover so no one understood what he said.

Rue realised with a sick stomach churn that the second man who had held her had been shot, in a hugely unattractive way, in the face. It was most unpleasant to look upon, even in the dark. So she tried not to.

Floote came over, looking almost sprightly as if violence were a cure-all. He evaluated the dead man with satisfaction. “Of course, Miss Mayberry, I was aiming for his chest. These older guns really aren’t accurate. Sentimental value, you understand? Or perhaps I’m not what I once was. Ugly shot, I do apologise.”

“Say nothing of it. Mistakes will happen.” Since he’d saved her life, Rue was disposed to be magnanimous.

The elderly gentleman gave a little bow, whipped out a large handkerchief from somewhere within his robes, and draped it over the dead man’s ruined face. Then he drifted away and ostentatiously reloaded his tiny parlour pistol. Rue felt, in that one moment, she had more insight into his role as Mother’s butler than ever.

Anitra reappeared. Possibly holding a tiny knife in one hand but it was too dark to make out clearly.

“What’s he babbling on about?” Rue pointed to the man with the large cat attachment.

“He apologises but hopes you understand a businessman must seize opportunities.”

Rue gave a small nod. “As long as he understands the same holds true for me.”

“He suggests that perhaps the deal might continue as originally arranged if the lioness could be persuaded…”

Rue shook her head. “I think not. Tell him to shout down to his compatriots. Bring the coal up as ordered. We have the feeder ready, off to the side there. We will keep him hostage until our transaction is complete. Will that work for you, Miss Sekhmet?”

The werecat nodded her massive head, keeping the man’s arm in her mouth, so he had to give a clumsy salute.

Anitra told him their new arrangement.

Percy called down for engineering to send up sooties.

After that things went smoothly, although Rue put considerably more thought into hiring a militia. She was even more grateful for Miss Sekhmet’s presence than she had been in the past.

The coal shunted down the tube apace. When it began to slow, Rue released two of the sooties to return to their duties in engineering.

Shortly after that, Quesnel came up top in a positive flurry.

“Rue!”

Since he rarely called her by her preferred name, Rue was instantly alert. She left Anitra and Tasherit in charge of their hostage, and the deckhands guarding against further infiltration, to meet the Frenchman amidships before he could blurt out anything secretive. After all, she did not know if their supplier really was ignorant of the English language.

She kept her voice as low as possible but spoke in cockney just in case the tradesmen had a distance listening tube. “Mr Lefoux, please return below. We have us some bad’uns.”

Quesnel was clearly very upset, for he didn’t even rib her on the atrocious accent. “So I heard.”

“So there be somewhat wrong with them coals, then, me laddie?” Rue was perfectly well aware that she sounded like a pirate in a small operatic production in some backwater hamlet. Spoo was staring with a hand over her mouth.

Rue’s question, or performance, dampened Quesnel’s anger. “No, it seems fine. If they’re trying to swindle us, it isn’t through the goods. I even had a sootie test for combustion. It’s quality stuff.”

Rue let out a breath. At least they had fuel. “Then what’s the tick? Did they try for belowdecks?”

“No.”

Rue was beginning to lose patience. “Then what? I’m in the middle of taking the egg.” She gestured back to where Tasherit stood with her mouth around the man’s wrist. “Poor cat, I can’t think that tastes good.”

“You…” Quesnel was scrambling for words.

Rue knew English was not his first language but he had seemed fluent until this moment. Now it was as if vowels were choking him.

“Out with it.” She let impatience colour her words. She couldn’t think of any cockney slang for getting a man to open his saucebox.

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

Rue crossed her arms, sort of; she was still holding the parasol in one hand.

“It was a stupid risk, Rue, putting yourself forward.” Still angry, he nevertheless softened his tone to a hiss.

Rue flinched when his hand came towards her face. But all he did was touch her neck, fingers shaking. They came away smeared with blood.